


i'm all yours (i'm not afraid)

by Quilly



Series: you gave all you had (now i am whole) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's 6000 year existential crisis, Canon Compliant, Footnotes, Historical References, Multi, Questioning, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, borrowing book canon in places, pretentious use of song lyrics and parentheses, protecting the one you love by putting distance between you: the musical, side a, wanton use of capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Aziraphale was a guardian who didn't mean to have questions.Side A ofyou gave all you had (now i am whole)they can't tear me downthey can't take you out of my thoughtsunder every scar there's a battle i've lost





	i'm all yours (i'm not afraid)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Side A of _you gave all you had (now i am whole)_, otherwise known as Where The Heck Did This Come From, Seriously. I'm just praying the footnotes work.
> 
> The first part of a two-part series, but it should stand alone just fine.
> 
> Title and summary come from Eclipse (I'm All Yours) by Metric, because my Ineffable Husbands playlist is probably 40% Twilight soundtracks and I am not ashamed of that.

There were many similarities between angels and demons, not that either side would admit it. In fact, Heaven and Hell were so set on being opposites that in the curious way of things, they were almost the exact same, and liable to obliterate anyone who dared point it out. Denial existed long before the joke about a river in Egypt was a twinkle in the Almighty’s eye.

Between the War and the Fall, somewhere along the way, touch turned into a taboo. This was no comfort to anyone, especially Aziraphale, who was clutching a heavenly sword dripping with corrupted ichor and standing in the midst of a cohort of slain angels, breathing heavily[1]. The sword burned in his grip, but Aziraphale couldn’t have dropped it if he tried. His post was to guard the side door of the Heavenly armory. He’d been told the fighting would be focused on the front door, that he would do the most good where he was—just in case, his platoon leader told him, clapping him on the shoulder and then quickly letting go. Aziraphale felt it odd to put him here by himself, but when a detachment of six or seven rebels came upon him—

In the times Before, when things made sense, touch was as natural as singing praise, natural as creation. Aziraphale was unused to keeping his essence to himself—a lot of angels were—but, following the examples of the Archangels, who had as a whole refused to commune in any nonverbal manner since the start of the War, the Host began to withdraw. Anyone could be a rebel. Anyone could be an enemy. The acrid tang of fear was staining Heaven’s peace more thoroughly than the rage and despair.

Aziraphale stood with his sword and his newly-ragged emotions until approached by Someone, Someone who stepped through the wreckage of the fight without a care for how it stained their robes, Someone with an essence that was friendly as gold and uncompromising as iron. Aziraphale flicked his eyes up, and saw the Archangel Gabriel, regarding him with a smile that hid more than it revealed.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel greeted, and Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him, unable to make himself speak. “This is impressive work, Aziraphale. Very impressive. The Almighty should be pleased.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice thick with things that had not been named yet (Grief, Sorrow, Horror, and something else that defied description, some mixture of the three that throbbed. It was shaped like a Question).

“I’ll be telling the Metatron to pass the information along,” Gabriel continued, either not noticing Aziraphale’s hollow-eyed stare and quiet voice or not caring. But an Archangel not Caring was unfathomable, so he must not have noticed. Or…or perhaps there wasn’t anything _to_ notice. Maybe how Aziraphale felt was how angels were supposed to feel after a battle. It seemed unlikely but Aziraphale could think of no other reason for one angel to sense another’s distress and not offer comfort.

Yes, Aziraphale must be overreacting. That was it. First real battle, and against so many enemies by himself—just shook him a little, is all. Aziraphale finally felt his fingers uncurl from around the hilt of his sword as Gabriel moved on. Gabriel stepped on a wing of a fallen rebel and Aziraphale flinched as it crumbled into ash. Gabriel did not stop.

However Aziraphale’s inexplicable defense of the armory door was explained, it landed him in front of the Archangels—or, at least, a few of them. The War hadn’t lasted long. There was something they were calling The Fall before Aziraphale was forced to raise his sword again. He wasn’t sure of the details of The Fall, only that the rebels were cast out and cut off from the Almighty’s holiness. The logistics of how that worked were mum, apparently.

“We were told of your most impressive defense of your post, Aziraphale,” Archangel Michael said, her hair smooth and swept back, lips gold as ichor, eyes distant and cool as moons. “We have a new assignment for you, directly from the Almighty.”

“I’m honored,” Aziraphale said with his heart in his throat[2].

“You’re going to guard one of the Gates of Eden,” Gabriel beamed, “and make sure the Almighty’s new project proceeds as planned.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’m humbled the Almighty thinks me worthy of the charge.” And he was. Very much so. Ever since the end of the War, Heaven was…different. With a whole third of the Host dead and Fallen, some light and warmth was missing. Aziraphale still felt the Question that formed in the back of his mind after killing his brethren, buried under justifications and self-platitudes, but he no longer felt the burning-pulsing-numb urgency of it. He’d groomed his wings and hugged himself for a while, and afterwards felt a bit like his old self again. Eden was a very special appointment to receive, especially for a foot soldier.

“You’ll be needing this, Principality Aziraphale,” Archangel Uriel said, extending a sword towards him with a trace of an upwards tick in the corner of their mouth. Aziraphale’s breath, if he had any, would have caught in his chest, but he overcame the moment of hesitance with blind obedience. As soon as he held it, the sword erupted in flames, and Aziraphale gasped. The title hit him second, flooding his being with warmth as much as the flames did.

“We’ll escort you and show you the ropes,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale extinguished the flame after a few tries. “You’ll be getting a body, too, to make the job easier.”

“A body?” Aziraphale asked.

“One of these,” Gabriel explained, and pinched his hand. The skin came up. Aziraphale gasped again. He thought the Archangels were looking more solid, but had chalked it up to it being an Archangel thing. Normal angel forms were a little more fluid, a little less substantial. He was very curious about what form his new body would take, if he would have any say in it.

As it turned out, he did—just a little. Out of the few bodies available for him to inhabit, one spoke to him more than the others. One felt most right.

“Hardly the most imposing figure,” Gabriel commented as Aziraphale stretched and twisted in his new corporation, liking the feel of it very much.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replied, smoothing down his robes, “but maybe being unassuming is the perfect defense.”

The Archangels had no reply to this, and Aziraphale, fluffy white hair and round cheeks and sturdy hands, felt a piece of himself slot into place.

.

Earth was _fascinating_.

Aziraphale, sword in hand, walked his perch of the Eastern Wall, eyes swiveling between the Garden and the world beyond. He supposed in comparison the world beyond was a little dreary, but Earth held a wild, rugged sort of beauty Aziraphale was itching to explore.

Not that he would ever abandon his post, of course, but sometimes, when all was still, and moonlight hit the dunes just right…

Earth was full of sensations. His new corporation loved the feel of soft wind and warm sun. The stone beneath his feet was smooth. Even hefting the weight of his sword didn't make him nervous so much as marvel at the physicality of motion. Aziraphale had time to think, up here on the Wall. He concluded, after a time, that it was easier to hold and wield the sword if he thought of his Purpose. Before, he hadn’t quite understood what was being asked of him. Here, he knew: to protect Eden, and all the creatures therein. From what, exactly, had been unclear at first, until a memo explained it to him on the third day: wild animals, vicious beasts, and demons[3]. He should be especially wary of demons.

Unfortunately, demons didn’t use doors anymore, it seemed. When danger came, Aziraphale was looking in the wrong direction.

.

Crawly was different.

Insofar as Aziraphale had had expectations of what demons were, Crawly certainly wasn’t it. He was put-together, for one thing, not a dirty creepy crawling thing like his name implied; he cut an almost elegant figure, rich red hair and earthy yellow eyes. He’d stepped towards Aziraphale before he even had time to put his wing over Crawly’s head to shield him from the rain, seemingly anticipating the instinct Aziraphale hadn’t thought twice about. They watched quietly together as the storm grew more fearsome, thunder and lightning and lashing rain. They were both soaked through, despite Aziraphale’s gesture.

“Not sure about this creation,” Crawly shouted over the rain, indicating the storm. “Think I might hide out in the Garden.” He half-turned, then looked over at Aziraphale. “Coming?”

“I—yes, that seems best,” Aziraphale replied, already disarmed by how easily the conversation between them flowed. He followed the serpent down into the Garden, taking shelter beneath a tree with wide leaves and plenty of space at the trunk. They quietly watched the rain’s progress, and every now and then Aziraphale would glance over at his strange new companion. Crawly seemed to be eyeing him, as well.

“There’s a rumor down in Hell,” Crawly said, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of Crawly’s casual tone. “Says demons’ll be destroyed if they touch an angel, and vice versa. Nobody’s quite sure what to expect.”

“I think I heard something similar before I was stationed,” Aziraphale replied, indeed recalling a snippet of gossip that had floated his way like a bar of music as the Archangels were showing him the path down to Earth. “I suppose it makes some kind of sense, given…what happened.”

“Yeah,” Crawly said, and without warning grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist.

Aziraphale flinched, toppling sideways in his haste, his startled yelp swallowed up in a crack of thunder. Crawly was grinning from ear to ear, but examining his hand. Aziraphale hurriedly checked his wrist. Not a mark. Oh, there was a tingle, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure if it was demonic and angelic essence interacting, or…something else[4].

“Seems like that’s a pile of rubbish, then,” Crawly said, and smirked at Aziraphale’s wide-eyed expression. “It’s alright, angel, you can come back, I can keep my hands to myself.”

“That—that was—reckless!” Aziraphale spluttered, returning to the tree but keeping more distance between himself and Crawly. “What if we’d been discorporated? Or destroyed? You can’t just—”

“Can,” Crawly interrupted. “Did. And look, we learned something.” Crawly flexed his hand. “Might keep it to myself, though, could be fun to watch the rest of Hell scrambling to make sure they never accidentally touch an angel. Not that it’s likely to happen, but still.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said absently, and rubbed his wrist. “I mean…perhaps it takes longer contact.”

“I doubt it,” Crawly said, settling back against the tree. “I reckon we’re safe from each other.”

“Safe,” Aziraphale huffed. “I could smite you, you know.”

“You and what flaming sword?” Crawly grinned.

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale sighed, but a smile was tugging at his lips despite himself. Crawly seemed to just have that kind of effect. He would have to be vigilant.

Aziraphale’s wrist tingled for days after this interaction.

.

Aziraphale had not been expecting to see anyone when he visited the grave, least of all a hunched figure wrapped in coal-black wings. There was a curl of red hair peeking through the gap, letting Aziraphale know who it was, but it didn’t improve his mood.

He understood death, of course. Or, rather, a version of it. He understood the parting of soul and flesh as it had been explained in his Earth orientation training, that his corporation could undergo a facsimile of the same process. He understood it meant the departed’s soul was either in Heaven or Hell. He had not been prepared to encounter Grief, named now and pressing on his chest as hard as it had the first time. And certainly not so soon, not with Horror and Sorrow playing along as they had before. The Question poked its snout up like sensing fresh blood, and Aziraphale buried it as best he could in his current state. He had come here to mourn in private, and the demon was intruding.

“What are you doing here,” he asked without much care for the answer as he dropped on the ground by the grave. Crawly didn’t unwrap himself, but he did shuffle his wings some.

“I didn’t know,” Crawly said in a small voice. Aziraphale’s gut swooped in much the same way it did whenever he tripped. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know—Crawly, what did you do?” Aziraphale asked, but he knew. Of course he did. Grief, Horror, and Sorrow bunched in his throat, expectantly. Something new was birthing in his chest.

“They just said—all I did—was just a little envy,” Crawly croaked from the shelter of his wings. “Sowing some discord. Just a little bit. I didn’t know…I didn’t know Cain would…”

A new feeling bloomed, one Aziraphale was more familiar with, although it was his first time feeling it: Fury. His wings snapped out without his notice and he rose from the ground, fists trembling, eyes prickling. From his vantage point, he saw a single yellow eye blink up at him, then bury itself back behind the dark feathers. Aziraphale didn’t care how pathetic Crawly made himself, he had done this. He had put it into Cain’s head, and Cain, one of the Earth’s first new generation of people, had murdered his brother. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, Abel’s blood was on Crawly’s hands. And his own, Aziraphale realized, he should have smitten Crawly when he had the chance, before he did this.

And so, bristling with righteous fury, Aziraphale went to do just that.

He threw himself at Crawly, who hissed as he was tackled back into the mud, and though he defended himself against Aziraphale’s wild clawing hands, he didn’t do much fighting. Aziraphale snarled at him, half-mad with grief and rage, not caring very much about the hands holding his wrists at bay. Crawly snarled back, and in a shift of his impossible hips and a strength from God-knew-where, Aziraphale found himself on his back, one wing pinned awkwardly beneath him, hands held tight to the ground above his head, and Crawly dug his sharp knees into Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale was preparing to flip them again when something landed on his face.

Rain? No, the clouds had passed on before nightfall. Then, what—

Crawly’s face was still twisted up in a hard glare, but his eyes were watering. Profusely. It took Aziraphale a minute to find the word. _Tears_.

Aziraphale went limp. Crawly sunk down with him at the sudden loss of tension, then rolled off of him, tucking himself back into a ball of black feathers and now audible sobs. Aziraphale felt the emotions choking him cluster again, witnessing the birth of something else, something that banished Fury and gathered the rest to its breast: Pity.

Aziraphale sat up, relieving the pressure from his aching wing, and looked down at his hands. When approached by half a dozen rebel angels, Aziraphale’s hands had moved without his conscious knowledge, his blade humming in a dance of death, just as he’d been trained to do. He’d killed them all with skill and finesse. There was no skill or finesse in what he’d just tried to do to Crawly, no Purpose behind it beyond hurt. The damage was done. Abel was dead and buried, his parents looking to the rest of their children with heaviness of heart and Cain abroad in the land on his own.

Aziraphale’s now-gentle hand placing itself between Crawly’s shoulder blades startled them both so badly that Crawly hissed again, whirling around, his face still blotchy and wet and tears still coursing down his cheeks. Aziraphale righted himself from where he’d nearly fallen back, offered a tired smile, and held his hand out again. After a few minutes of staring, Crawly scooted closer and took Aziraphale’s hand, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crawly shrugged.

“Free will,” Crawly said like a curse. “This is what it means as much as Eve choosing what to make for dinner.” He rubbed his face with his sleeve. “Don’t see the bloody point. Never did. What’s the point of it all if all life is going to be is suffering?”

The Question in Aziraphale’s mind loomed, very nearly given voice, and Aziraphale, in a panic, let go of Crawly’s hand, clasping his hand to his chest instead like the Question was a tangible thing he could keep from escaping. Crawly glanced at him, brows furrowed.

“Humans have free will to choose good and evil,” Aziraphale recited from a memo he’d gotten after the apple business. He sighed, and patted Crawly’s knee. “You gave that to them, as I recall.”

“At least they had the ability make the choice in the first place, they just didn’t know they could,” Crawly said, his voice suddenly venomous. “Demons, on the other hand, don’t have free will.”

Aziraphale blinked. That wasn’t something heard every day[5]. “That seems…wrong, somehow.”

“Angels don’t have it either,” Crawly continued, ripping grass up from the ground and shredding it between his long, fretful fingers. “When was the last time either of us got an assignment from Head Office and had the luxury of turning it down?”

“That’s—” Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut. This didn’t feel like an argument he wanted to have, not while sitting on a grave. Though it did seem oddly appropriate.

“I’m not wrong,” Crawly said, looking Aziraphale in the eye. His expression, usually lit up with a smirk like he knew a joke everyone else didn’t, was stone-cold, lifeless. “I can’t disobey a direct order. Neither can you. Tell me where free will fits into that.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps not,” he said slowly, “but…Heaven doesn’t exactly tell me what to eat for breakfast every day, do they? I’m capable of making that decision myself. And there are other things, between assignments.”

“I guess,” Crawly grumped. “I thought—well.”

“What?”

Crawly seemed to be chewing on his words, weighing them against something, and finally ground out, “The rebellion sort of gave the impression that’s what they were fighting for. Free will for all. A different path than the Almighty’s. Didn’t find out until I got down there what a load of tosh it all was.”

“But Lu—Satan was arguing for the opposite,” Aziraphale frowned. “He wanted total control, no choices for anybody but his own.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a smooth talker, isn’t he,” Crawly mumbled. “Sure didn’t sound like what he was arguing for. Or maybe he’s just a liar.”

“Satan, a liar? Incredible,” Aziraphale said, and Crawly glanced at him with the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Maybe what he actually said was that he wanted to offer answers,” Crawly sighed. “Or a way to get answers we wanted.”

“What kind of answers?” Aziraphale felt very much like he was teetering on a precipice. One the one side: Heaven, and logic and order and Goodness. On the other side: the Question, eating away at him.

“Well, all of ‘em,” Crawly shrugged. “Why things exist the way they do, why the Plan is so Ineffable, why suffering has to happen. Why, just Why.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and the Question, now sensing its kin, roared into being, thrumming through Aziraphale’s head with an intensity it hadn’t possessed since the armory. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to crickets and nighttime birds and if Aziraphale concentrated hard enough, the sound of faraway wailing. “Did…did he? Give answers?”

“If he did, there would be a lot more of Us and a lot fewer of You Lot, in my opinion,” Crawly said. “I could just never take anything on blind faith.”

Aziraphale had no answer to that. Sometime before morning Crawly laid his hand on Aziraphale’s again, then disappeared, and Aziraphale let himself crack, his head falling into his hands and tears flowing down his cheeks.

_Why?_ the Question insisted. _Why? Why? Why?_

.

By Michael’s timeline, the children of Israel still had another decade of wandering in circles in the wilderness before the Almighty would allow them to take the Promised Land. Aziraphale decided a little nip somewhere more temperate wouldn’t hurt, not if he miracled himself there and was discreet.

Travel via miracle wasn’t encouraged except in emergencies, but if Aziraphale made it in several small jumps, they might not register as very big uses of divine energy at all, certainly not enough for a reprimand. He hoped. Anyway, he had sand in places sand should never be, and he wanted a breeze that wasn’t scented with thousands upon thousands of goats.

He overdid it a bit and wound up somewhere in what will one day be Russia, up to his knees in snow and regretting it very much, though the sensation of extreme cold as opposed to extreme heat was novel. He just wished he wasn’t wearing sandals, is all. But it was peaceful, and silent, and as long as Aziraphale kept moving, he found it a perfectly acceptable diversion.

“I must say, angel, you know how not to disappoint a fellow,” a familiar voice drawled, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, turning to look up in a tree, where Crawly was looking at him with a bright smile and a cocked head, unbearably amused. “Wondered how long before you cracked and went somewhere else.”

“Honestly, forty years is a bit much to spend with the same group of people making the same mistakes and facing the same retribution for it,” Aziraphale sighed, high-stepping through the snow to get closer. His toes were beginning to go numb. Crawly shook his head and snapped, and Aziraphale was surprised to find heavy fur-lined boots on his feet.

“You’re not allowed to die of frostbite, angel, I’ll get far too bored without you,” Crawly said by way of explanation, and Aziraphale beamed at him.

“Thank you, dear boy, that’s very kind,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley hissed.

“I’ll pour porridge in your pillow if you say that to me again.”

“Where have you been, then?” Aziraphale asked, changing tack.

“Same place as you, just popping back into Egypt to check up on the state of things,” Crawly shrugged. “Been ever so much fun pestering Moses. Shame he died already.”

“That’s what they do, Crawly,” Aziraphale said, and meant to sound more sardonic than he did, but the business with the flying venomous vipers was still burned into his mind. At least none of them had looked like Crawly[6].

“And again, I must ask Why,” Crawly sighed, and Aziraphale ignored the pang of panic in his chest. He’d learned now how to deal with the Question, and refused to give it purchase in his mind right now. Crawly climbed down from the tree, boots suddenly on his feet as well, and he reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand[7]. “Let’s find someplace to drink, angel, we’ll discorporate out here.”

Baltic beer was rather good. Or maybe Aziraphale was just tired of Hebrew wine. Though the tent they’d managed to scrounge up along with the beer[8] was quite warm, Crawly was plastered to Aziraphale’s side, and when Aziraphale looked at him, Crawly’s teeth were chattering without him seeming to much notice. Aziraphale’s heart pounded in his chest (funny things, bodies. Need so many things to function, even if just for comfort), and his skin prickled, not uncomfortably. He was still young enough to remember when Heaven was like this, when he could lean up against someone and mingle essences and enjoy someone’s company. Heaven was no longer like this, and it was wrong that Aziraphale sought comfort from a demon, but, well. If Crawly was here with him, then he wasn’t causing mischief elsewhere, and that’s enough.

Aziraphale miracled a mountain of thick blankets and pillows, and they got roaring drunk and then sleepy drunk. Aziraphale was only a little bit surprised when he woke up to Crawly’s form curled around his own, soaking in as much warmth as he possibly could beneath all the blankets and furs. Aziraphale let him. He shouldn’t. He very much should not. They’re enemies, after all.

But Crawly looked far more fetching with flushed lips than blue lips any day.

Not that Aziraphale had noticed how fetching Crawly was.

He stroked Crawly’s thick crimson hair back from his face and did not take a moment to let the curls sift through his fingers. That would be inappropriate.

“’m glad touching doesn’t make us blow up,” Crawly slurred, and Aziraphale froze (not literally, that was the point of the tent and the beer and the blankets and the physical contact). Crawly yawned and tucked his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “S’warm.”

Aziraphale very carefully did not make eye contact later when Crawly woke up properly, and did not look up in the hot desert sky later and think of someone brushing sand out of his wings for him. Or, at least, he didn’t think of someone with long fingers and a smile like a throwing knife doing it. Definitely not.

.

The Question was now a comfortable resident of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale had come to regard the Question as something to hone his faith against: if the Question was roaring insistently for an Answer, Aziraphale dug deep into his well of belief and found a way to reconcile his Question with the task at hand. Repeating “ineffable” to himself helped, sometimes. The Question always went silent at the mention of ineffability.

Ineffability felt flimsy in the face of Pompeii, now.

Crowley’s there. Of course Crowley was there, because Aziraphale was there, and Aziraphale was seconds from discorporation before Crowley grabbed him and growled at him that they needed to move. Aziraphale hadn’t cared at the time. Couldn’t say he cared much now, watching the ash clouds spread towards the sea. They were close enough to see Vesuvius, far enough away to not have to see Pompeii itself, and Aziraphale had tear tracks through the thick ash coated on his skin.

Crowley didn’t say anything, looking as grimy as Aziraphale, but he clutched his own wrist and every so often clearly ground his teeth. Aziraphale was too deep in shock to comment. Cities fell all the time, for various reasons. It was rare to see one exist one minute, and be gone the next. Usually there was some kind of order to it, some kind of reason. This was just nature. Just overwhelming force.

_Why_, the Question sang, _why, why, why, why?_

“I was in one battle during the War,” Aziraphale said abruptly, and Crowley seemed startled to hear him speak. “One. They told me to guard a door, and I guarded it. Rebels came, and I fought them. I killed them.” Aziraphale fisted his hands tight in his robes, hearing the fabric creak under the pressure. “Seven against one, did you know that? Did you know I could do that?”

“No,” Crowley said quietly.

“Gabriel was so proud. The Almighty must’ve been, too, She assigned me to guard the Eastern Gate next,” Aziraphale continued. There was something like hysteria growing in his voice. “I failed. Then She told me to guard the human race.” He gestured towards Vesuvius. “Obviously, I failed here, too.” Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “I’m here on a fluke. Whatever happened at the armory in Heaven, it wasn’t my doing. I’m no guardian.”

Aziraphale had known Crowley long enough now to not flinch quite as hard when Crowley’s hand touched his knee, when Crowley’s wing curled around him. “I’ve seen you when you’ve been forced to fight, Aziraphale, it was no fluke,” Crowley murmured, stroking his thumb along Aziraphale’s kneecap and causing all kinds of shivery goosebumps to pop up all over Aziraphale’s skin. “But your skill as a fighter isn’t why you’re here.”

Aziraphale found his heart in his throat again[9]. “Then why…why am I here?” _Why?_

Crowley took his time to answer, looking at Aziraphale from beneath his lashes, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled to the point of overwhelming his ability to speak. “Because you care,” Crowley said. “Because you understand humanity more than anyone Upstairs ever will. Because you like books and good food and good wine, and if the Almighty didn’t send you here because of that, then She’s a cosmic idiot.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said weakly, chastising both the compliment and the blasphemy, but he took Crowley’s hand, dragging his eyes up to meet the demon’s, and the expression there on Crowley’s face was curious. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would say it was tender. The thought hurt more than it should, in a way that was both bitter and exquisitely sweet, though putting words as to why Aziraphale felt it was beyond him right now.

Vesuvius belched again, and Crowley stood, dragging Aziraphale up with him. “Come on, angel. There’s nothing we can do here.”

“There should have been,” Aziraphale muttered. “I should have—should have known. Seen the signs. Gotten them out.”

Crowley squeezed his hand hard, to the point of pain.

“Shut up,” he said, with a trace of bite. “Mouths are for drinking, not self-deprecation.”

“Whatever you say, my dear,” Aziraphale said tiredly, and if Crowley stumbled when he said that, Aziraphale was too deep in his own mind to much notice.

.

Not many people thought Aziraphale fit the mold of a knight, but Aziraphale had made a very profitable existence from taking jobs he seemed ill-suited for.

He supposed he was paying for his hubris now, Aziraphale sighed, hearing his squire snore from one tent over and laying out the padding he wore under his armor to dry it out some. It was uncomfortable enough riding a horse and wearing armor and having a sword again, wet underthings would push it into completely intolerable.

He heard crunching footsteps outside of his tent, and tensed as the flap undid itself and was pushed aside, but it was just Crowley, dressed down to hose and tunic rather than armor, and carrying a bottle under his arm.

“Relax, angel, it’s just me,” Crowley said as Aziraphale drew himself up and narrowed his eyes.

“I’m aware it’s you, dear boy,” he replied, unable to help himself with the endearment, it seemed. Crowley grinned at him and pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spitting it into a corner and holding it out.

“S’not anything special, but it’s not vinegar, at least,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale sighed, accepting the peace offering and taking a long gulp. It wasn’t horrid, but Aziraphale still grimaced. “Bit of a backwater, this little island we’re on.”

“Not every place can be Rome, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and sighed. “I do hope they get the hang of sanitation soon.”

“Not sure humanity will ever really get the hang of that one,” Crowley snorted, accepting the bottle and taking a swig before passing it back. They drank in silence for a while. Aziraphale could still hear Crowley’s suggestion playing in the back of his mind, and the harder he tried to push it down, the more insistent it became. Crowley glanced at him, and it was unnerving how easily Crowley seemed to be able to read him as he said, “You’re not still sulking about what I said this afternoon, are you?”

“No,” Aziraphale huffed, swallowing an overlarge gulp of wine. The bottle was almost empty and he didn’t have so much as a buzz. What an awful place this was.

“I’m just saying, it would make more sense,” Crowley said.

“Please don’t start, my dear, it’s miserable out here and I would rather enjoy your company than quarrel about…things.” Aziraphale passed the bottle back and watched as Crowley drained the last of it, then put the bottle aside, not refilling it. That was odd. Equally odd was the somber look on Crowley’s face as he did it and sat back on Aziraphale’s little rug. One might almost call it a pout.

“I was just thinking,” Crowley mumbled, “that it might help. The whole free will thing.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, blinking.

“You know. Demons don’t have free will. That whole…thing.” Crowley shrugged. “Been itching at me lately, how we keep winding up in the same places and working ourselves into the ground just to draw an even score.”

“That’s our job, isn’t it?” Aziraphale replied. “I work to bring about goodness and light, you spread darkness and hate, and humanity chooses which side it likes best.”

“Is that what it is? Because it seems more to me that what we’re doing is letting the humans do as they will and voiding each other’s attempts to make a real influence,” Crowley grumbled. “I don’t like working hard for no reason, angel. Makes my scales itch.”

“Well, what’s your Purpose?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley shrugged.

“Hell only knows,” he said. “What good are souls to God or Satan, anyway? Why are they so important?”

“They surely must be, or else we wouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale said slowly, already feeling a prickling unease. He hated when Crowley got in these moods, because he made far too much sense and the Question in Aziraphale’s head liked to torment him with it for years at a time. The silence that followed was uncomfortable as Crowley glowered at the tent wall and Aziraphale tried to look anywhere but at him.

“The Black Knight’s making an alliance soon,” Crowley said suddenly. “Mordred, I think his name is. Nice bloke. Loads of daddy issues. I assume you’re familiar?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a chill running up his spine. Young Mordred was new at court and whispers were already afoot that he was King Arthur’s illegitimate son—by a close female relative, according to some reports, which just made Aziraphale squeamish. Not nearly as squeamish as the darkness radiating off the boy did, however. It made sense Crowley would be involved in some capacity there, but Crowley didn’t normally truck with violent young men unless there was some end goal in sight.

“According to human prophecy, Mordred’s going to kill his father and destroy Camelot,” Crowley said, his tone casual. Aziraphale blinked. That was news to him. “His alliance with the Black Knight ensures it, so the tale goes.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley scratched at his cheek, clearly chewing on the inside of it, then shrugged.

“Felt like it,” Crowley said. “Seems only fair.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said slowly, thinking. What Crowley had done was give him a tip-off, which Crowley did now and again. He just wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with this information.

“Would be a shame if the Black Knight suddenly disappeared,” Crowley said. “Buggered off somewhere with his company, left young Mordred hanging.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said[10]. “And why would he do that?”

“Oh, some Round Table prat with a great bloody sword came at him and vanquished him,” Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale sighed.

“And what does the Black Knight stand to gain from being so thwarted?”

“Nothing much, nothing much,” Crowley said, cutting his eyes sideways towards Aziraphale. “Mordred would be in need of a new mentor, then. Would be a role any seasoned knight would be happy to step into. Show the lad the ways of the Round Table, make sure he keeps his nose clean. Steers clear of the Queen’s business with Lancelot. That kind of thing.”

“I don’t understand what it is you’re telling me, Crowley,” Aziraphale complained. “This makes no sense, why would you—it’s our duty, our Purpose, to make sure we fulfil our missions from Head Office to the letter, to whatever end is necessary. Why are you so eager to dodge out of this?”

“Because I’m cold and damp and would like to be anywhere else,” Crowley snapped. “And you’d owe me one.”

“Owe you—certainly not,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Come _on_, angel, think about it,” Crowley groaned. “You scratch my wings, I scratch yours. Mordred still gets a knight to look after him and secures a place at the Table, so Hell’s happy, and Mordred doesn’t cause the fiery end and ruination of Camelot, so Heaven’s happy. Crowley nips off to warmer climes, and the next time we’re in the same place, we flip for who gets the job. No score drawn, everybody’s happy.”

“I…” Aziraphale trailed off. It did make a great deal of sense. Them constantly being in the same place canceling each other out was getting tedious. Maybe…

Gabriel’s violet eyes flashed in his mind at that point, distant over his blinding smile, suggesting Aziraphale be more diligent in his duties, souls weren’t just going to save themselves, after all. _I recommended you for the job, Aziraphale, don’t let me down now!_

“No,” Aziraphale said, and stood. “I think it’s best if you go now.”

“Fine,” Crowley said coldly, and slouched his way towards the tent flap. “See you in half a century, I’ll be the one saying ‘I told you so’ while we’re staring at the rubble.”

Crowley left in such a way that the closing of the tent flap had the same effect as a slamming door, and Aziraphale sat, breathing in an attempt to control his temper. The nerve of him, honestly!

Aziraphale laid down to rest[11], trying to soothe his mind with pleasant images, but Crowley’s words kept coming back to haunt him. It wasn’t just the warning about Mordred’s destiny that Aziraphale was worried about. It was the bitterness in Crowley’s voice when he mentioned free will, the same bitterness he’d had about the subject since the beginning, and Aziraphale found himself wondering not only if it was true, but the significance of it.

Humans got to make decisions, make mistakes and learn and grow. In general, angels and demons did nothing of the sort, they followed their sides of the Plan and made sure it all ran smoothly (or not smoothly, in Hell’s case). Aziraphale had never truly questioned his orders, besides the Question that dogged his moments of existential crisis. Free Will was such a precious gift. Had God truly granted it to humanity and not to Her other children? Aziraphale could certainly see how it would appear that way, particularly to an angel Fallen from grace. Aziraphale thought of himself as something of a free agent, allowed to do more or less as he pleased between assignments, but Crowley’s words from nearly five thousand years ago bounced around his skull: _When was the last time either of us got an assignment from Head Office and had the luxury of turning it down? _

Is that truly what free will meant, to make decisions about whether or not to obey Head Office? It would certainly make sense, and if that’s all it was, it would make even more sense why Crowley would be chomping at the bit to be rid of his employers’ boot on his neck. And the more Aziraphale thought about it, he found that he agreed. The Question gnawed at him as he thought back over a thousand tragedies that could have been prevented, if only he hadn’t been ordered aside. The reasons why were never clarified.

Aziraphale sighed. He was tired and cranky and needed to rest, and had a long ride back to Camelot in the morning. He didn’t have time to entertain Crowley’s radical ideas.

Several decades later, standing in the ashes of Camelot with Arthur’s death rattle ringing in his ears, Aziraphale revisited the thought and pondered.

.

1349 was hellish.

Aziraphale was pushing his corporation to its limits. Sleep wasn’t a necessity, though periods of restfulness were, and restfulness hadn’t been a thing since the first outbreak. Europe was in shambles, the dead were piling up faster than the living could bury them, and Aziraphale could feel himself dangerously close to being in a bad way. He took no notice of it until he saw Crowley.

Crowley had been scarce ever since the start of the fourteenth century, despite the Arrangement, and Aziraphale knew they’d been sent to the same places now and then in the past fifty or so years. Whatever Crowley’s reasons for being on his own, Aziraphale finally saw him curled in a ball on the stoop of a London house and felt a pang in his belly, sharp and hot and regretful. Crowley didn’t look well. His hair was tangled and matted, clothes dirty and torn, skin caked with unnamable stains. Aziraphale had the thought to let him alone, to continue making his way towards one of the makeshift hospitals to see if there’s anything to be done, any miracles to be wrung from his exhausted essence.

He sat down next to Crowley on the stoop instead. Crowley flinched, then relaxed, his eyes looking orange from how red-rimmed they were. He threw a faint smile in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale didn’t ask what he was doing outside of this particular house; he could smell the death on Crowley’s skin from here.

“I have a cottage nearby, if you need a place to rest,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley snorted.

“How is anybody supposed to rest with all this racket going on?” Crowley asked.

“By visiting the Pacific Islands and not coming back for a few decades, I suppose,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley barked a laugh.

“Didn’t think you were a slacker, angel.”

“I’m here instead of in a hospital or a church, aren’t I?” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. “Since you’re here, and I’m here, might as well get a drink. We’re useless as we are right now.”

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded, staggering to his feet. Aziraphale followed, walking near enough to catch Crowley if he stumbled, but Crowley seemed to find the rhythm of his feet and hips in enough time to forestall that. They passed people dying in the street and children sleeping in alleyways, heard wailing and all manner of human suffering, and when they made it to Aziraphale’s abode for the foreseeable future, Aziraphale himself felt like he could barely keep on his feet. Once the door closed behind, the small miracles Aziraphale baked into the cottage took effect, erasing the sounds and smells of outside and leaving a quiet, fresh interior. Crowley sighed, in relief or something else it was hard to say.

“Got a bathtub in here, angel?” Crowley asked, picking at his wrecked hair. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the one in his bathroom filled with steaming water and became lined with soaps of all kinds, the door to it swinging open in the narrow hall that led to Aziraphale’s more private set of chambers.

“Help yourself,” Aziraphale said, and went to dig out whatever alcohol he had on hand. Getting plastered felt like the thing to do, though he wouldn’t start until Crowley came back.

Crowley took a long time, not that Aziraphale could blame him. He emerged over an hour later, hair damp but clean and brushed, skin cleared of grime, wearing one of Aziraphale’s longer spare shirts. Aziraphale’s breath stuttered to a halt at the image, and to cover his sudden rush of…Something…he slammed a brandy bottle to the table louder than intended.

“I made the water fresh, angel, go get yourself cleaned up,” Crowley said quietly, taking the bottle from Aziraphale’s shaking hand. Aziraphale swallowed, and Crowley glanced up at him, eyes tired and expression neutral, but a small smirk growing on his face as he pushed some rich red hair behind his ear. “Go on, I won’t start without you.”

Aziraphale stiffly walked himself to his bathing room and had a very quiet, contained come-apart as he scrubbed himself down.

He’d seen Crowley in all manner of dress over the centuries. He’d seen Crowley naked on more than one occasion. He’d seen Crowley looking the picture of sin and pleasure, and he’d seen Crowley looking lovely and ethereal, and he’d seen Crowley passed out drunk and snoring and making the most unflattering faces. All elicited a kind of familiar fondness in Aziraphale’s chest, some more than others, but this…it’s different. Wearing Aziraphale’s clothes made him look different.

He couldn’t do this, Aziraphale reminded himself, he’s an angel. Angels don’t itch to run their hands through demons’ hair and fit themselves into the crooks and gaps of demons’ bodies for a cuddle. And yet Aziraphale had. But it always seemed so innocent before, just two friends—rather—two familiar beings, drawing comfort from the only other being who could possibly understand. Aziraphale drew a shuddering breath. He and Crowley weren’t friends. They weren’t. They couldn’t be. Every touch between them had been just—just comfort. Casual. Feeding a need of the corporation, keeping it in happy equilibrium. It had always been that way between them before, until suddenly it wasn’t[12].

Aziraphale needed a break, he thought, washing his hair. A long one. Somewhere with good food and no Crowley muddling him up. He could always return to Heaven, but there was no food in Heaven (not good food, anyway, not how humans made it). Maybe see how Japan was this time of year, or India. South America. Somewhere far.

Alright, he decided as he dried himself off and dressed himself, he just had to make it through tonight, then he’d be off to wait out the rest of the Black Death elsewhere. Maybe he’d suggest Crowley do the same, he’s looking terribly unwell. The words were in Aziraphale’s mouth before he walked into his kitchen and they died a horrible, strangled death at the sight of Crowley grooming his wings.

They’re a sight, snarled and dirty as demon wings never are, and Crowley winced as he combed through the feathers. He shot Aziraphale a thin smile when he noticed him, flexing his wings. “Been a bit since I’ve had them out. Thought they could use a preening.” Crowley cocked his head, his smile going for suggestive but just landing in faintly amused. “You do mine, I do yours?”

“I…” Aziraphale swallowed hard. It had been quite some time since his own were preened. For all he knew, they were in as bad a state as Crowley’s by now. He crossed slowly to the table, picked up the bottle of brandy, and upended it into his mouth, taking two quick gulps. “Of course, dear boy.”

“Right then, hand me a wing and I’ll get the inside of one of yours while you get one of mine,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale took a steadying breath. With the air of a man (-shaped being) already too deep in his fate to escape it, Aziraphale unfurled his wings, let one in Crowley’s care, and took a look at Crowley’s wings himself.

Mutual preening was one of those things that Heaven had phased out. It was ever so pleasant to get lost in the work, fixing the underside of one of Crowley’s wings, scratching his fingers through the down, and moving to the next. Crowley made short work of Aziraphale’s, since his were in better condition, and Aziraphale let Crowley fix the outside of his wings, leaving them white and glossy and neat. Aziraphale half-expected Crowley to be rough and efficient with his grooming, but to his surprise, Crowley was gentle. Methodical, but not severe. Aziraphale felt heady with the feeling of another person’s fingers in his feathers, like getting a nice massage but magnified[13]. He was sure he accidentally let some very contented noises slip out of his mouth, but if Crowley heard, he didn’t comment.

“Done,” Crowley announced, and Aziraphale held in his sigh by sheer willpower. He stood and turned to smile at Crowley, catching the tail end of something soft in Crowley’s buttery eyes that was gone when Aziraphale thought to look closer.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, and walked around Crowley’s chair to see what he was working with. The feathers were a mess, and it looked like there were still sheaths clinging to the new growths here and there, but it was nothing some diligence couldn’t sort out. Diligence, and ignoring the faint hums and sighs Crowley kept making as Aziraphale worked.

Demon wings were usually sleek and well-groomed, and once Crowley’s feathers were adjusted they were looking very handsome indeed, a cool matte charcoal-black that radiated a faint blue sheen in places. Aziraphale combed his fingers through the feathers for a little bit when he was done, just luxuriating in the feel of them, and Crowley wasn’t objecting or commenting, leaning his head against his hand, clearly dozing. He was taller, but slight enough that Aziraphale’s shirt was sliding off one shoulder, the fabric puddling around Crowley’s thighs in a most distracting manner. Not that Aziraphale was distracted. He was perfectly in control of his faculties, and as such, knew that touching Crowley while he wasn’t entirely conscious and the job was done was inappropriate.

“All done, dear,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley grunted. “Do you want a drink, or sleep?”

“Ngk,” Crowley groaned, tipping his head backwards to glare at Aziraphale, leaning into his stomach. “Sleep. Then drink. Then more sleep.”

“It can be arranged,” Aziraphale smiled, and waited for Crowley to pull himself together enough to stand upright, folding his wings back into the ether. “You seem to already know where the bedroom is, so make yourself at home. I’ve more proper nightshirts, if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a nightshirt, angel,” Crowley snorted, and then yawned. He turned around, took several steps towards the bedroom, then looked over his shoulder. “Coming?”

In that moment, the Question in Aziraphale’s mind found itself with a companion, just as barbed, just as dangerous:

_Why not?_

A million, billion reasons, Aziraphale argued, and the longer he hesitated, the more tired Crowley’s expression became. He turned around and shrugged. “Alright, then. See you in the morning, Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said belatedly, once Crowley was nearly in the bedroom. The door shut, and Aziraphale sank into a chair, pillowing his head in his arms and trying to think. It was hard to do, with exhaustion and despair already weakening him and now with the Questions working in tandem to chip away his self-control.

He was an angel, Crowley was a demon, and their friendship—acquaintanceship—Arrangement could spell disaster for them both. It was highly inappropriate, besides, to be in such close quarters.

_Why?_

Because angels and demons didn’t just—didn’t just share jokes, and wine bottles, and skin-to-skin contact! The last few times it had happened were entirely the fault of the alcohol, and in some cases regional effects that made warmth-sharing a matter of survival and not pleasure. It just wasn’t done.

_Why not?_

Because if Aziraphale had encountered Crowley during the War, Crowley would have been dead because Aziraphale would have killed him. It would have been right for Aziraphale to do so, to take his blade and slice through Crowley’s essence like fine silk, to scatter him like ash through the cosmos. Nauseous as the thought made him now, back then, it would have been expected. In all technicality, it was _still_ expected.

_Why?_

Because anyone who defied Her Will was an enemy, and Crowley had done it. Or at least questioned it, which apparently was enough. Aziraphale found their Arrangement to be beneficial, keeping the balance between Heaven and Hell while not inconveniencing them both at the same time, but the Arrangement and the kind of closeness that peppered their…long bout of knowing each other…were two separate things. The touching shouldn’t have happened at all.

_Why not?_

Aziraphale trembled. Touch was taboo, he reminded himself. The Archangels themselves had made the unspoken decree. Aziraphale had adjusted. Humanity, though—humanity was inundated in it, so thoroughly bound to touch that it was impossible to be among them for all the long millennia and not engage in it. There had been some humans Aziraphale had allowed himself to grow quite close to. More than quite. Very close. He was well-versed in the various appetites of the flesh, and while some were more preferable to him than others, humans couldn’t satisfy on all of them. No human touch compared. They just didn’t understand. Aziraphale had loved his human companions dearly, but they were no Crowley.

Heaven would have him back in a desk job in a heartbeat if they knew, of this Aziraphale was certain. They would have no tolerance for him. They might even cast him out, the first Fallen since the Fall. That thought scared him speechless. And certainly Hell would be worse.

What would Hell do to Crowley if they found out, anyway? Aziraphale feared he could guess. The idea of not touching Crowley anymore was painful, but as he ruminated on it, the idea of a universe without Crowley in it was worse. _Nobody ever needs to know_, Crowley had said of their Arrangement, and it ate away at Aziraphale now as he considered the options. Of course nobody _needed_ to know, but that hardly meant information didn’t escape and find itself in ears it wasn’t supposed to. Could Aziraphale live with himself, knowing all it would’ve taken to save Crowley’s life was a little self-discipline and boundaries?

Maybe Aziraphale could give him one more night. One last time, pressed together and warm, soaking up the touch like wine and getting intoxicated by the contact alone. In the morning, they would have to face the bonfires and streets piled with more dead than living, for however long Pestilence decided their little jolly would last. Maybe having one more nice memory…

_Why not? Why not? Why not?_

Crowley turned towards Aziraphale as he climbed beneath the blankets, wrapping himself around Aziraphale with a hissing sigh and urgency that defied description.

“Oof,” Aziraphale chuckled despite himself. “Careful, dear.”

“Took you long enough,” Crowley mumbled, his face buried in Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale stroked his fingers through Crowley’s hair, long again after Rome, and tried to ignore the ache starting up in his heart, near where the Questions resided. “I think…” he sighed, unable to make himself form the words.

“Dangerous habit, that,” Crowley murmured.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale smiled, but without mirth. After another few minutes of silence, the Questions and the Doubts that they spawned were buzzing in his head and chest, making him feel more like a beehive than an angel. He bit his lip. It could ruin everything, but he’d rather be straight with Crowley than hurt him by carelessness[14]. “Crowley, are you awake still?”

“No,” Crowley grunted.

“I was just thinking…if maybe we ought to be more discreet,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shifted, tightening his arms and legs in their tangle around Aziraphale’s body. “I just worry…it might be too much.”

“What might?” Crowley asked, and his voice was sharp even as he refused to lift his head from its resting place. Aziraphale certainly didn’t have the strength to push him away, but what he was about to say next might do it for him. He took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure we should do…this…for a while, after tonight,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley’s ribs once. “Between the Arrangement and our respective Head Offices, I just worry what will happen if we’re caught spending more time together than is seemly.”

Crowley was silent for so long that Aziraphale was sure he’d fallen asleep and left Aziraphale to his fretting.

“What might happen to you, you mean,” Crowley finally said, his voice flat, and he squirmed away from Aziraphale’s grip, turning over and burying his face in a pillow. Aziraphale considered the aching void in his arms now and felt like crying.

“No, what might happen to you, you silly serpent,” Aziraphale said, and his voice definitely cracked, oh dear. “As you’re constantly reminding me, Hell doesn’t send reprimands, not like Heaven’s. I…Crowley, please look at me.”

Crowley turned his head so one yellow eye was glaring in Aziraphale’s general direction, but not actually at him. Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley curled tighter into himself. Aziraphale decided it was the best he was going to get.

“I’ve no issue with physical closeness when it’s necessary, but how many kingdoms have you and I witnessed falling because of indiscretion?” Aziraphale asked. “I quite like what we have going for the moment. The Arrangement, the world, when it isn’t being torn asunder by horrible plagues, all of it.”

“You’re sending mixed signals, angel,” Crowley replied, somehow his voice even flatter. “What do you want?”

“I want—I want us both to be able to continue our work, and to be sensible about it,” Aziraphale said after a long moment of fighting the Questions for control of his own mouth. “And…if it’s alright with you…for old times’ sake, I wouldn’t mind it if you felt you could sleep tonight with me nearby. I’m rather done with this century and what it’s offering.”

Crowley huffed. “You and me both.” He rolled over. “Aziraphale, if I go to sleep now, I may not wake up for a very long time. I don’t want to. Sleep here, don’t sleep here, it won’t matter to me once I’m out. But I think I’m worth more than a part-time bedwarmer, don’t you?”

Aziraphale flinched, then sat up. Crowley watched him, looking angry and half-desperate, and Aziraphale climbed out of the bed, smoothing down the covers.

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale said, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d said it at all. He cleared his throat. “This cottage is protected, and should last for a few decades, at least. You sleep as long as you need to.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other for a long, long moment. Aziraphale wished he knew what to say, and how to say it, to wipe the resignation out of Crowley’s frown. Crowley eventually broke eye contact first, thrashing himself into a more comfortable position.

“Wake me when this century’s over,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Aziraphale left the bedroom and did not return except maybe once every few months, to check the wards. Months stretched into years. The plague boiled, then broke like a fever, washing away slowly but surely. Crowley slept on, and Aziraphale kept watch, taking some of Crowley’s assignments as they appeared, just to make sure Hell wasn’t suspicious. The Questions prodded Aziraphale relentlessly whenever he visited the cottage, but Aziraphale had a duty, a Purpose, and something to guard, and in this he knew he excelled.

Aziraphale was in France when he felt the wards dissolve in a way that let him know Crowley himself had undone them and breathed a sigh of relief. However Crowley felt about him personally, he was at least still around for them to bicker about the Arrangement and avoid more tender subjects, and that’s what counted.

Crowley had slept for nearly eighty years. It would be quite a few more before he sought Aziraphale out again.

.

It was 1793, Aziraphale was entertaining thoughts of opening a bookshop, and he and Crowley had swapped places, Crowley running around France while Aziraphale kept watch over London. From what he heard, France was getting a bit carried away in the aftermath of America getting its little revolution not entirely blown up, but he was confident that it was the kind of environment in which Crowley could thrive.

The touching had gone down significantly. Not stopped, because it never really could, there would always be fingers brushing as they passed things between each other and shoulders bumping as they walked, but no more waking up in a post-drunken stupor in each other’s arms. Crowley dressed warmly in the winter and stayed in terribly fashionable places with large fireplaces, he hardly needed anyone to help regulate his body temperature. And if he did, he wasn’t wanting for options, looking like he did. Aziraphale pretended he was fine with this. He had to be. It was the only way.

The Questions still haunted him, of course, but Aziraphale found they had their uses, especially when taking over a temptation and he needed some inspiration. Otherwise, they kept their wretched muttering to themselves and let him get on with his work. Aziraphale’s collection of books and scrolls was really getting out of hand. He had his eye on the perfect little corner shop—was just on his way now to sign the papers, actually. There was a spring in his step and the fine sunshine of a spring morning as he walked through London and pretended the air he breathed was still fresh and new. Aziraphale had adjusted to city life and taken to it well, but sometimes he thought about the open, clean space the Earth used to be and sigh.

Along the way, he spotted a small child sitting on the curb of the street, bawling, no adult in sight. Aziraphale was stooping to kneel before he could much think of what it was he was doing, magicking a sweet into being and offering it to the sobbing little girl.

“There, there,” Aziraphale cooed, “buck up, it’s alright. What’s wrong, little one?”

“M’lost,” the girl squeaked, though she was turning the sweet Aziraphale had given her over in her fingers with a look of wonder. Aziraphale sat down next to her, summoning a sweet for himself and smiling down at her.

“We can’t have that, now,” Aziraphale said, and popped the sweet in his mouth. The little girl stared at him, then immediately followed suit. “Where are your parents?”

“Gone,” the little girl said. “Just me auntie and me now. We was going shopping and now I can’t find her.”

“How sad,” Aziraphale said, and extended his hand. “I’m Mr. Fell, young lady. And you are?”

“Mary,” the girl said shyly, and giggled when Aziraphale winked and a penny appeared in her palm after they shook hands. “You’re funny, Mr. Fell.”

“You’ve no idea, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and stood, offering his hand. “Come on, then, Mary, let’s find your auntie. Where were you last shopping?”

After two hours of wandering the streets on the authority of a six-year-old’s memory, a half-hysterical woman finally came tearing out of a side-alley, calling Mary’s name, and Mary ran to her, letting herself be hugged and fussed over and scolded. Aziraphale noticed the humble clothing and the meager groceries in Auntie’s basket, and once he had endured their thankfulness and parted ways with them, Aziraphale snapped his fingers again, and filled the basket with enough good food to last for at least a week, maybe two if they were frugal. Feeling full of angelic peace about the whole thing, Aziraphale made his way to the courthouse to sign the papers and acquire what would become his new bookshop.

Aziraphale was in a fine mood by the time that transaction was complete, fine enough to stop by his favorite café and have tea and an éclair. The tea was delicious, but the éclair was dry, and after checking to make sure the coast was clear, Aziraphale huffed at the offending pastry, and the éclair became crepes, steaming and warm and piled with fruit. There. Much better.

All of this goodwill and high feeling came crashing down around Aziraphale’s ears when he read Gabriel’s latest memo, tucked in his little flat and feeling the crepes in his stomach turn sour.

Frivolous miracles, the note said, and on the attached ledger, Aziraphale conceded that the many listings of adjustments he’d made for his comfort were perhaps a little over-indulgent, but there, in Heaven’s precise script, were also listings for healing a cabbie’s sprained ankle, and turning a dockmaster’s temper from a struggling employee, and filling a poor woman’s basket with food. Those, Aziraphale had been sure, were not frivolous. How could kindness be frivolous?

_Why_, the Questions breathed.

Aziraphale had thought he was doing well at his post, had correctly interpreted his Purpose, and was wielding the best weapon for the job. Now he wasn’t so sure. Withholding help when it was within his means felt selfish. How could he not stop to help when someone was in need?

_Why not_, the Questions hummed.

Aziraphale spent probably more time than he should thinking about the note, and about his actions, and about his goals and his Purpose. Perhaps it was time for a reevaluation, a recalibrating of sorts. Oh, it was difficult to do on an empty stomach, he lamented some weeks later. He’d been having a very specific craving lately, and a thorough search of London had already turned up empty. Aziraphale hesitated. He hemmed. He hawed.

If nearly every miracle he’d done for the past two years had been flagged as frivolous…what were a few more, on top of those? Just a quick pop across the Channel to Paris for crepes and back. Hardly a huge use of his power, and it would make him feel a little better.

_Why? Why not?_

.

Aziraphale stood in the wreckage of a church (not for the first time, probably not for the last time either) with a satchel of books and felt many, many things, all at once.

The Questions were absolutely frantic, pinging around his head and making a single cacophonous noise that Aziraphale was terrified of identifying. He had the shape of it, the hint of an outline, and he shied away from it, trying to justify it, trying to reason it away.

But Crowley had remembered the books. Crowley had come into a church, a consecrated place, after decades of frosty radio silence, and not only saved Aziraphale’s hide, but his precious belongings as well. Aziraphale tried not to think of it, tried desperately, but the Questions and the emotions they invoked would no longer be ignored.

Crowley _cared_ about him.

No, the Questions roared, Crowley _loved_ him.

And, the Questions hissed, positively vibrating with glee, what was better—what was best—was that Aziraphale also—

“Coming, angel?” Crowley called from the driver’s side door of an impossibly sleek automobile, and Aziraphale flinched.

“Yes, my dear, I’ll be right there,” Aziraphale replied, making his way over debris as his ears rang and his awareness swam, because—because—

Crowley’s driving was every bit as horrific as Aziraphale knew it would be, and he was properly terrified for his life, but also grateful for the distraction, because Aziraphale was starting to get a headache from wrestling with his entire being.

“How the heaven does a bookseller in Soho get roped into a Nazi spy scheme?” Crowley said as he stomped the brakes, perhaps harder than strictly necessary, once they arrived at the bookshop. Aziraphale, once he could speak around his immediate terror of fiery discorporation, shrugged.

“I bit off more than I could chew, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale sighed. “Wanted to feel…I don’t know, useful.” He fiddled with the handle of the satchel as Crowley turned the car off. “Not being able to protect the whole city, or much of anyone, it…grated.”

“Gabriel again,” Crowley growled, and said a few of his favorite swear words in various languages.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale huffed, hiding his smile. “Come in for a nightcap?”

“Sure,” Crowley grinned.

Several bottles of some excellent red wine of varying vintages later, Aziraphale was giggling helplessly over some anecdote of Crowley’s, missing his mouth with his glass and hanging on every word. Crowley always did his best work with an audience, anyway, though he was staying firmly seated on the sofa tonight. Usually he would pace around to make his point, and it was starting to occur to a very drunk angel that something was off.

“—standing in the middle of a cornfield, no trousers, holding the crate, policemen everywhere, and I got out of there scot free,” Crowley finished, and as Aziraphale laughed about the fate of a hapless bootlegger Crowley had outwitted over in America somewhere, Crowley shifted his legs and winced. That was enough to shut Aziraphale up immediately.

“Your feet,” Aziraphale slurred, then cursed and focused on banishing some of the alcohol back from whence it came. “Crowley, your—consecrated ground is really extremely dangerous for demons, your feet must be cinders.”

“S’alright,” Crowley said, then hissed. Aziraphale threw himself to the ground in front of the sofa, already taking one of Crowley’s ludicrously fashionable shoes in his hands. It was still uncomfortably warm.

“It is _not_ alright,” Aziraphale said firmly, and when Crowley opened his mouth, Aziraphale cut him off. “Be still, you probably did more damage walking around on them afterwards. I wish you’d said something, dear boy, we could have started treating them ages ago.”

Crowley glared, but didn’t protest as Aziraphale removed his shoes. Witnessing the charred holes in Crowley’s nice silk socks, he grimaced, already catching sight of the burns beneath, but navigating Crowley’s socks off his feet[15] nearly caused Aziraphale to gag. The smell reminded him of bonfires in the fourteenth century. The bottoms of Crowley’s feet were raw and blistered, the scales burnt away in places and looking puffy and inflamed in others, and Aziraphale pressed a hand over his mouth and stopped breathing. It made it somewhat better, but it hurt to know that Aziraphale’s foolishness had caused Crowley injury like this.

“Not much to do for it but wait for it to heal, I’m afraid,” Crowley grunted, and Aziraphale looked up at him.

“You have experience with this?” he asked, and Crowley shrugged.

“It got difficult to walk around most of Europe by the Middle Ages,” he said, “and I wasn’t about to avoid Italy entirely during the Renaissance. Honestly, I’ve had worse, angel, it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said, his voice barely a whisper, and looked helplessly at the mess of Crowley’s soles. “I suppose my healing would make it worse, wouldn’t it?”

“A bit, yeah,” Crowley shrugged again with a strained smile. “Mind if I kip on the couch for the night? Now that you’ve halfway undressed me?” Crowley’s leer made Aziraphale laugh, as he suspected was the goal when Crowley’s shoulders relaxed.

“You’re right, I’ve been quite the scoundrel,” Aziraphale smiled. Crowley wiggled his toes, swore, and settled further into the couch.

“Pass more wine, angel, wine helps.”

As Crowley snoozed in a drunken pile of limbs on the sofa, Aziraphale watched him with soft eyes. The Questions were quieter, in consideration for the peacefulness of the scene, but they made one Statement, loud and clear:

_You love him._

Alright. Time to stop living in denial, Aziraphale, he thought. Yes. He loved Crowley. He was mad about his friend, and yes, they were most certainly friends. But that was all the more reason to protect him. As strongly as Aziraphale’s bone-deep need to hold and be held by Crowley resonated within him, something else, something stronger, overrode the instincts. Aziraphale’s love would sentence Crowley to obliteration. Crowley’s life was the door, the Gate, the mission, to protect. Aziraphale’s self-control was the sword. And the Purpose: to prolong Crowley’s life and make sure they could have more quiet evenings like this, hidden away and stolen from time like kisses from a new lover. Probably an inappropriate simile, but it fit.

The Questions, contrary to a fault, raged against it all, and Aziraphale shut them down. The Great Plan was ineffable, Aziraphale’s faith was rooted in the Almighty, and Crowley was a constant in his life and always would be. These three truths were enough for all the _Whys_ and _Why Nots_ in the world.

.

Contrary to popular belief, Aziraphale was not as hopeless a gardener as Crowley thought him to be.

He had been a monk for a long time, and beyond scribing and illuminating copies of the Bible, there had been other chores Aziraphale was ready to try his hand at. And before that, for thousands of years, man did not eat but by the sweat of his brow. Aziraphale had often helped to tend fields and bring in harvests. He knew how to feel the thrum of living things, to ask what they needed, and provide it. Perhaps the Dowling estate garden was not as lush as Crowley seemed to believe she could make it, given the chance, but Aziraphale was content with it. His employers had no complaints, certainly.

Speaking of Crowley—Ashtoreth, rather—she was looking haggard these days. Caring for a child was no easy feat, and certainly looking after the Antichrist had to be tiring, but Warlock was seven, and thinking for himself in ways that dizzied Aziraphale to witness. Maybe Warlock was just being contrary, but he had comebacks for every order Nanny Ashtoreth gave and excuses for her reprimands, and Aziraphale did not envy her the position of being a disciplinarian as well as parent. Heaven knew the Dowlings were no help, they undid all of Nanny Ashtoreth’s hard work every time Warlock was out of Nanny’s care for longer than two days at a time. Aziraphale chewed a stalk of grass and watched as Warlock tired of his remote-control drone and asked Nanny for a snack.

“You’ll spoil your dinner, dear, it’s half past four already,” Nanny Ashtoreth said in her soft lilting voice, and Aziraphale could see Warlock’s face puffing up from here. He was striding towards the two of them before he knew what he was doing, brain absolutely empty of ideas for how he was going to divert the impending crisis beyond bellowing cheerily and hoping it helped.

“Hullo, young Master Warlock!” Brother Francis said as he slowed to an amble, then swept his hat from his head. “Ms. Ashtoreth, good evening to ye, as well.”

Nanny Ashtoreth inclined her head at him, expression unreadable, and Warlock went from about to explode to vaguely sullen. “Hi, Brother Francis,” he sighed.

“I don’t suppose I’ve showed ye the new plant I found in the garden yet, have I?” Brother Francis asked, and Warlock’s face brightened, shaking his head. “Well, come along, lad, it’s a right treat, it is. Ms. Ashtoreth, you can rest your feet a while, I can handle the boy, I think.”

“Oh, no, I want to see the new plant, Brother Francis,” Nanny Ashtoreth said with the trace of a smile on her dark-painted lips.

“Nanny loves plants, Brother Francis,” Warlock explained as they made their way towards a back corner of the garden, close to the hedge. “I think that’s why she likes the garden so much.”

“I might like it more if it was better-cared for,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, and Brother Francis laughed.

“The Almighty made things to grow in their times and seasons,” Brother Francis said contentedly. “I’m just a keeper of Her works.”

“Nanny says plants grow better if you shout at them,” Warlock said, and Brother Francis glanced at Nanny Ashtoreth.

“That might work for some folk, Master Warlock, but mark you this, kindness goes a longer way than meanness ever will,” Brother Francis said, and heard the tiny snort of derision from Nanny Ashtoreth before she covered it with a dainty cough. “Ah, here we are.” He stopped at a rapidly-growing vine overtaking part of the hedge, blooming with delicate white and yellow flowers. “Any idea what this is, Master Warlock?”

“No,” Warlock shook his head. “What is it?”

“It’s a pest, is what it is,” Nanny Ashtoreth sniffed.

“Don’t you listen to her, Master Warlock, this is a magic plant, this is,” Brother Francis said, winking at Warlock, who looked up at Nanny and giggled. Brother Francis picked a bloom carefully and held it out to Warlock. “Here. Suck on the end of that. Not too hard, you don’t want to swallow the poor thing, just drink from it and see what you can taste.”

Warlock took the flower with some trepidation, but Nanny Ashtoreth nodded, and Warlock did as he was told. A moment later his eyes widened. “It’s sweet, Brother Francis!”

“That it is, lad,” Brother Francis grinned. “That’s honeysuckle, that is. Sweetest flower God ever made, exists for no other reason than to spread joy and love.”

“It’s good!” Warlock smacked his lips. “Nanny, you try one!”

Nanny Ashtoreth pursed her lips, but when Brother Francis held out another bloom, she took it and obeyed Warlock’s suggestions for how to properly get the nectar from it[16]. The flower came away from Nanny Ashtoreth’s mouth stained dark purple, and something about it made Aziraphale’s throat dry up immediately. Brother Francis coughed and picked his own flower, covering his immediate flush with a laugh.

“There’s your snack, Master Warlock,” Brother Francis said. “You run along now and play, I think it’s nearly time for supper.”

“Okay,” Warlock smiled, and immediately ran off. Nanny Ashtoreth took a moment to look at Brother Francis over the rim of her sunglasses, and the stern twist of her mouth was entirely ruined by the soft amusement in her eyes. Aziraphale winked, and Crowley grinned.

“Thank you,” Nanny Ashtoreth said softly.

“Any time, miss,” Brother Francis replied. “It’s Saturday night, innit?”

“Yes,” she said, adjusting one of her slim black gloves. How she stood it in the early summer heat, Brother Francis would never know. “Normal time?”

“Kettle’s on,” Brother Francis said, and with that Nanny Ashtoreth strode after her charge, sensible heels somehow never sinking into the soft ground.

Every so often, Crowley would find her way to the humble little hut on the edge of the property, mainly to compare notes and commiserate about the task at hand, but when Nanny Ashtoreth slipped into Brother Francis’ abode tonight, she immediately sunk into the single squashy armchair, toeing off her shoes and tossing her sunglasses to the side to press her fingers over her eyes and sigh. Aziraphale sighed too and put a fresh cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her.

“There you are, my dear,” he murmured. “You’re looking quite done for. Difficult bedtime?”

“Mrs. Dowling got it into her head to start replacing his books,” Crowley mumbled. “She swapped out his favorite bedtime story with a chapter book and he threw a fit when I couldn’t find it.”

Aziraphale settled on the floor near her feet with his own cup of tea, thinking. Crowley’s feet had healed over since the business with the church, but he had a suspicion they were more sensitive now than they had been before, given how some days Crowley would sprawl over his furniture and refuse to move for several hours if he’d been on them for too long. He set aside his tea, pushed back the coffee table, settled on the floor in front of her, and gently took one of Crowley’s feet in his hands.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked quietly, and Crowley, now looking at him from over the tops of her hands, eyes wide, nodded. Aziraphale could feel the scales of her foot through her stockings, and as he pressed his thumbs into the arch, working up towards the ball of the foot in long, slow strokes, Crowley made a soft, soft noise Aziraphale hadn’t heard since the last time they’d preened together. Aziraphale worked slowly, kneading and massaging, feeling trace scars along the soles as he did, and when he began on the heel, Crowley made another noise, though her hands were now pressed over her mouth. Aziraphale glanced up at her and saw a thoughtful expression on the exposed half of Crowley’s face, her eyes dark and half-lidded, and something about it made him swallow hard. He finished with one foot and moved to the next, avoiding her eyes after that and trying to ignore the various peeps and whimpers he was drawing from her.

When he was done, Aziraphale placed Crowley’s foot down gently and chanced to look up, and when he did, Crowley leaned forward, her dark-painted lips smeared somewhat and eyes glittering.

“I think I’m sleeping here tonight,” she said softly, and Aziraphale’s heart thumped hard. “Seven hundred years is probably enough time in between to not seem indiscreet, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale knew what she was asking, and the Questions thrummed in his ears along with his blood. He tried to work moisture back into his mouth, scrambling for rational thought, heart in his throat[17]. Every guard was entitled to put down his sword once in a while, the Questions whispered. Crowley reached out and smoothed some of Aziraphale’s hair down, and Aziraphale sighed despite himself, leaning into the touch.

“Of course you can stay here, my dear,” he murmured, and when she stood up to make her way to the flea-bitten bed (which somehow became larger and nicer once Crowley climbed onto it, covers and all), Aziraphale followed. The hell with it, he told himself. Earth might be ending in four years. He could allow himself this one single indulgence. It wasn’t even for himself, he reasoned as Crowley unpinned her hair and settled into the pillows (who were surprised to find themselves stuffed with down instead of old polyester and insects). It was more for her sake. Crowley pressed herself flush against Aziraphale as soon as he was settled in, and Aziraphale wrapped his arms around her, smoothing back her hair so he didn’t get any in his mouth and resisting the sudden mad urge to kiss her forehead.

Crowley’s satisfied little sigh kept him awake the rest of the night.

.

It had been unnerving, to be wielding his sword again.

Aziraphale still found that having a Purpose helped enormously with the uneasiness that still clung to him after all these thousands of years, but he was more than happy to return the sword from whence it came[18]. His hand felt strangely empty without it.

“We’re on our own side,” Crowley said, more gently than he had ever said it before, and for the first time, it sank in, as they rode the unlikely bus back to London. Aziraphale felt a change on the horizon, not for the world, exactly, but for himself. The Questions were buzzing in his head again, chewing over everything that had happened—the Antichrist, the Horsepersons, Gabriel and Beelzebub, Crowley stopping time itself, their fights in the street and at the bandstand, Heaven’s disregard for Earth. _Why?_ the Questions asked.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were immediately interrupted by a weight dropping on his shoulder.

He glanced over, and saw Crowley, still sweaty and smelling of smoke and covered in ash, half-asleep on Aziraphale’s shoulder already, and a swell of fondness overtook him (_Why not?_), so strongly, in fact, that without much thinking of it at all, Aziraphale reached out his hand and placed it on top of Crowley’s. Crowley made a sort of grunting sound[19], and after a moment interlaced their fingers. Aziraphale took his empty-feeling hand, the one that had held the sword, the one that had been holding a sword all these long years, and placed it over their joined hands in a protective gesture. Crowley’s other hand followed, squeezing his fingers as tightly as he could manage in his exhausted state.

For the first time since Aziraphale raised his sword back in Heaven, the Questions fell completely silent.

_Oh_, Aziraphale thought, resting his cheek against Crowley’s shock of crimson hair, _it’s you. You’re the Answer._

And he always had been.

.

Though an estranged agent of Heaven now, Aziraphale was still a Principality, and he still functioned best when he had something to protect, a Purpose to his existence.

Their little essence-swapping trick had worked. Aziraphale wasn’t sure it was going to, not because he didn’t think the idea was sound, but he wasn’t sure if he could bear being so exposed, even to Crowley. Then he relaxed, because it was Crowley, and the initial transfer was…an experience.

Here is a brief lesson on the history of essence: in the Beginning, when Aziraphale was learning how to use a sword, all angels were made of essence. Essence is formless and ethereal, so angel appearances in Heaven can be rather confusing. The most efficient mode of communication between essences, and the most intimate, was through intermingling essence and dropping exactly what you meant into the thoughts of the other, with no room for misinterpretation or doubt. It had been how angels knew their distinct duties before, and it was the kind of communication that the Archangels had, in their unspoken way, forbidden by taking corporeal forms. The rest of Heaven had never really recovered from the loss. Aziraphale was no exception.

But mingling essence with Crowley—being connected on such a personal level—it was thrilling and terrifying. Aziraphale knew every thought he’d ever had about Crowley was about to be on display, but more than that, he was about to know all of Crowley’s, and he wasn’t sure he could bear it. Aziraphale had hurt him so much over the years. But as their essences rushed through each other to swap vessels, Aziraphale gasped—Crowley’s essence, while ragged on the edges, was starlight incarnate, filled with a love for the skies and for growing things. It was mischievous rather than evil, and held a soul-deep sadness that would never heal but could be managed. He saw every unspoken “I love you” from the Garden on, every curious question, every spark of interest in the world around them. Threaded through it all, patient and kind and enduring and hopeful, was a love that had been there from the very beginning, winding like a serpent, chanting—_Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_—

It was enough to go to any angel’s head. Was it any wonder Aziraphale had felt bold enough to ask the Archangel Michael for a bath towel, after having such a sure knowledge that not only was he forgiven by the one being he had cause to apologize to, but was so cherished?

The transfer back wasn’t quite as intense, but Aziraphale found he didn’t want to let go of Crowley’s hand.

Their afternoon at the Ritz bled into an evening walk and from there a night back at the bookshop, where Aziraphale fluttered around his collection and took stock of the new books while Crowley sipped wine and watched with a smirk that was really more of a soft smile. Aziraphale was used to chattering at length with little interruption, but something in Crowley’s face gave him pause while in the middle of a mild complaint about the state of his misprinted Bibles and their new placement.

“Everything alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley downed the rest of his wine.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Just nice to see things back to normal, is all.”

“Hardly normal,” Aziraphale snorted, “but I see your point, yes.”

There was something swelling in the room, something that had been growing for six thousand years that was getting ready to bloom. Or perhaps storm. It was hard to tell, but whatever it was, Aziraphale was certain it promised only good. He watched as Crowley set down his wineglass and stepped towards him, expression neutral but for the fond twist of his mouth, and Aziraphale watched him approach with that Something beginning to unfurl, warm in his chest.

“Been thinking about taking a holiday,” Crowley said. “Run ‘round the world, see what’s new. Don’t suppose…”

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale answered when Crowley apparently was unable to complete his sentence. He smiled, reaching out to smooth down one of Crowley’s lapels, and Crowley reached for his glasses with a hand that trembled, taking them off and hanging them off the front of his shirt. Crowley’s spice-yellow eyes were wide and hopeful and it made Aziraphale’s heart ache in the best and worst ways.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Er.”

“As you said, we’re on our own side now,” Aziraphale said. “We should look out for one another, don’t you think? Easiest to do when we’re keeping each other in sight.”

“Yeah,” Crowley stammered. “In sight.”

“There’s no rush, of course, if you have other business to attend to first,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shook his head. “Excellent. I believe I have something very nice in the back to celebrate such an occasion.” Aziraphale stepped around Crowley, got a couple steps away, then looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t help the mischief in his smile and voice as he asked, “Coming?”

Crowley seemed to visibly gulp, and his face broke into a smile. “Yeah, angel, I’m coming. Right behind you.”

Aziraphale held out his hand, and Crowley stepped forward and took it, and really, what more was there to say after that?

Much more, in fact, there was much, much more to say, not least of all the mountain of apologies Aziraphale owed Crowley, which would be doled out over the course of years and talked about and laid to rest, some with more grace than others. There was also much more to be done, and if it took all of twenty minutes for Aziraphale and Crowley to be so thoroughly wrapped around each other it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, that was no one’s business but their own, was it?

Crowley took Aziraphale’s face in his hands and held him delicately like a precious thing. Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and feathers with the same focused, measured strokes. Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s mouth like a starving man, planted reverent kisses into his skin like he was burying seeds, brushed his lips across Aziraphale’s knuckles in feather-light adoration. Aziraphale drank it all in and paid back what he was given with all enthusiasm. Touch was taboo in Heaven—but he wasn’t in Heaven anymore. Likely never would be again, but that was hardly a loss, with Crowley’s hand in his own and sushi on the table and a book under his arm.

The facts were this: The Plan was Ineffable, Aziraphale’s faith, while rooted in the Almighty, was wound tightly around Earth and all the things therein, and he and Crowley loved each other with the kind of force that shook Heaven and Hell to their bitter cores. All other Questions could, if he was allowed to be candid, get bent.

[1] Or, rather, his essence was quivering with a complex cocktail of emotions very new to him, but rather than trying to explain what an essence is, and how it quivers, and what exactly the shape and breadth of feeling a single emotion does to an angelic essence, let alone several at once, let us keep ourselves within the bounds of things we all understand and say he was breathing heavily.

[2] A peculiar expression just now invented, meaning “with gratefulness, of course, but also great trepidation at the idea of being entrusted to do something by the Almighty Herself, and hoping not to disgrace all of Heaven with his performance.” The original meaning has undergone a number of changes since this moment.

[3] Here a footnote indicated what a demon was: a fallen angel, stripped of Grace and sent to Hell, and some would be popping up to tempt and wile away souls from the Almighty’s path towards Satan’s.

[4] Something like being touched for the first time in what felt like a very long time, and certainly for the first time in his new body.

[5] Obviously not, given that it was the first time said on the surface of the Earth, though Aziraphale didn’t spend any time anywhere else and would have heard it quite often if he ever did visit Hell.

[6] Not that a plague like that was at all Crawly’s style, if only because managing dozens of small snakes was bad enough without giving them wings. Crawly endeavored to work smarter, not harder.

[7] This, Aziraphale had not quite learned how to deal with, and heat radiated up his arm even though Crawly was quite cold.

[8] Definitely not stolen, Crawly protested, just borrowed without permission, and Aziraphale was getting too chilled to protest.

[9] Here taking it to mean “grateful, though he shouldn’t be, and overwhelmed, and still incredibly sad about the senseless destruction of a whole city of people who just chose to settle in the wrong place, and wanting to contradict his nemesis but also not wanting him to stop saying things to make him feel better.”

[10] He really didn’t.

[11] Not sleep, of course, but the body did enjoy quiet meditation in a soft bed now and then; restless pondering in a clammy cot was another matter entirely.

[12] Suddenly as a sunrise. Suddenly as human aging. Suddenly as a frog in a pot realizing “oh, dear me, this thing is boiling, isn’t it?”

[13] This is because bodies with wings have a significantly larger amount of surface area and nerve endings compared to bodies without wings, and there’s also some hooey about essences and the mingling thereof coming into play, but to keep it simple, Aziraphale felt most that he was being both touched and understood, which was a feeling he hadn’t had since well before Eden.

[14] A pointless fear, as Aziraphale offended Crowley all the time without meaning to. In his mind, he was stating facts about the nature of the universe and morality. In Crowley’s mind, he was being a self-righteous git.

[15] Made more complicated by his sock garters, which of course Crowley wore because he was Crowley, making it so Aziraphale had to push the trouser legs up and then undo the socks from the garters.

[16] Having done it once, Warlock was now an expert on honeysuckles and more than happy to teach Nanny the ropes.

[17] Here meaning “terrified to his very soul for what the consequences would be, but very much wishing to indulge his friend and hold her and gently touch her face and trace the serpent on her skin with his fingertips because he had missed holding her as much as she had missed holding him.”

[18] Or, rather, from whence it had found itself after Aziraphale gave it away to save humanity; there was irony in the idea that the tool he had been given to protect, that he had given away to protect, was a symbol of destruction and violence now, but perhaps it wasn’t so much ironic as simply a fact of the dual nature of weapons.

[19] “Ngk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Now go, on to Side B!


End file.
